Blood Brothers- 221B one shots
by iswiminrain
Summary: A collection of 221B one shots posted at random. First four are about Scandal in Bohemia. Chapter five: If Sherlock Holmes solved the Jack the Ripper case, why did he never turn in the killer?
1. Better

"I threw it in the rubbish bin," declared Mrs. Hudson.

"You what?" snapped Sherlock Holmes, whirling to affix her with piercing slate eyes.

"You heard me. Tossed it."

A furious search commenced.

"When did you do this?"

"You were sleeping! And you haven't touched the contents of that drawer in years. I thought I was doing you a service!"

The two faced off, radiating indignation.

"What is it, Holmes?" I threw in my lot; was rewarded by thoughtful silence.

"It is nothing," said he, slumping into his armchair, arms crossed petulantly across bony chest. Our landlandy looked dangerously on the verge of bursting into tears or flames.

"Well then, I'll go dig around for it then! But really, it was just a photograph of a woman you despised."

"Oh dear me," cried Holmes. "I would not describe it that way should you ever care to read Watson's account of the case."

"The woman!" I cried, understanding dawning. "Irene Adler. That is what you threw away. The photograph."

Our landlady returned, huffing.

"Well then. Here she is."

Holmes took the photograph from her. Clipped to the back was a newspaper cutting, Irene Adler, death date 1893.

"It was a decent write up, old chap. The Scandal in Bohemia. She was the woman for me. But the real ending should have been better…"


	2. Paris in the Springtime

She was alive. He woke and she was dead. He threw his arms out, embracing thin air. The Paris night was cold, desolate. He threw off sheets and walked to the window, fastening his gown, reaching for cherry wood pipe with thin, nervous fingers.

The city of lights was a cascade of brilliance, but without her it was a dim charade. He sat on the sill, smoking, watching the rain race down the foggy window. He thought of Watson, back in Baker Street, the violin, the comforts of home, far away from this alien frontier.

He came to Paris to be with her. _Paris in the spring time, tres romantic, Mr. Holmes_. And he'd found out upon arrival she was gone. Threw herself into the Seine and washed ashore by morning's first light, said the paper. But he knew the sorrowing truth of it. The emissaries of the rich and powerful King are needlessly cruel, and they had finally paid back her transgressions.

He wondered if he loved her, and mulled over what this brand of lusty infatuation tasted like. He could taste her questing mouth on his, stirring forgotten songs in his head, bringing him to life, and then tossing him limp and useless on the shore of his love. He would give anything to have her back.


	3. Cyanide Core

"How could I have known?"

I half listened to the moan. My head was bent upon the recent medical journal, scanning with heavy lidded eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"If you didn't hear the first time, I won't bother repeating myself," he declared, peeking from behind a set of formidable beakers. "As is, the question was highly irrelevant to the task at hand. It was just a passing thought."

"Well now you've captured my interest, there's no getting away from it, so go on." I gave up the journal; this Baker Street bread and circus was enough entertainment for me.

"I was thinking of the poison cyanide as I mixed these chemicals. You can find it in apple seeds, as you are doubtlessly aware. Then I thought, how can something so seemingly harmless as an apple be so damned deadly? I then thought about legions of criminals that are innocuous on the outside with a cyanide core within, if you will. My thoughts progressed to a contemplation of Irene Adler, the woman you recorded in that tale of yours. But how was I to know what a poisoned apple the woman was?"

"I suppose if you had viewed the fairer sex with an optimist view…"

"Balderdash, Watson!" He declared sharply. "Any ill feelings I had before have been banished."


	4. Blast!

Around the time I was penning the Scandal in Bohemia, the story in which my fantastic friend matched wits with the opera singer, Irene Adler, I realized I must terminate the employment of my less than fantastic maid.

I believe, as does my wife, the final straw was when slovenly, dull-witted Mary Jane invited the orphans to stay with us. Or mayhap it was the time she pitched my boots to the bull pup after trying for the second time to remove all the mud. By the spring of 1888 it became painfully obvious that Mary Jane had overstayed her welcome.

As I had never in my life had the displeasure of terminating anyone's employment, I left the details up to my wife, who handed dear Jane a letter. When my wife returned home, crimson around the ears and hesitantly squeaked open the door, the orphans had fled.

I only realized after the towering blanket forts were gone and the orphan boys sent scuttling out the door and leaving not a trace behind, that I recalled one of their soot stained faces from a previous meeting.

It was Curly, one of Holmes' illustrious Baker Street Irregulars. If Holmes knew we had tossed his boys to the streets and their merciless whims without so much as a shilling's compensation, he would…Oh blast!


	5. My dear brother

The public is under a terrible misapprehension that Holmes was unsuccessful in solving the Jack the Ripper Murders. I suppose that if there exists such a mechanism as Fate, years down the line someone may open this box at Cox and Co. and discover the truth about those blood-washed nights when the killer stalked the horrified city.

The last murder in the steaming little shack with the body laid out on the filthy sheets, when my friend got there ten minutes late and failed to stop the killing, is a memory I will take to the other side of the grave. The stench was too strong and we fled that room of terror choking and retching. I did not sleep for days after, and only years later can I make it through the night without falling prey to night terrors.

Sherlock Holmes never forgave himself his fobile. I insisted that if he knew the identity of the killer, he must do us all a service and turn him in. He said that would not be possible. The authorities, he said, would refuse to dole out any justice to the wrongdoer and Holmes felt he could not confront the killer on his own turf, though he knew where he dwelled.

"But who is it?" I cried. "Pray tell!"

"My dear brother."


	6. The Doctor meets the Detctive, Part 1

Sherlock Holmes is contemplating shooting another hole in the wall when he hears a sudden groaning from outside the apartment. It sounds like gears grinding. He walks to the window instead and pulls aside the curtain.

A blue police box sits smack in the middle of Baker Street. Holmes, who has yet to see the invention of a telephone, is immediately puzzled. He scratches his head. A tall man with a flop of brown hair pops out of the telephone box and gazes up and down the street then runs towards Holmes' apartment, his strides comically large. He climbs the steps two at a time. He hesitates for a moment, casting his eyes about for Holmes doesn't know what on the door with his pointer finger extended, and then decides to pound on the door instead.

"Oh dear. Another mad one, I should think," says Mrs. Hudson.

"Lead him up. I like mad."

Mrs. Hudson goes down the stairs and leads the phone booth man up to 221B. He enters the apartment, rubbing his hands together, his grey-green eyes twinkling.

"Oooh, you're Mr. Holmes. I've always wanted to meet you. Look at you, a real detective."

"And your name?"

"I'm no one. Actually, you know, it's a long story. Let's just settle for I'm a mad man with a blue box."

 **To be continued in part 2...Reviews are cool.**


	7. The Doctor Meets the Detective, Part 2

"It's quite a story," says the doctor. "I was headed to the Centurion Galaxy. Apparently they've got some robotically engineered killer gnomes wreaking havoc all over the place. But then the silly old TARDIS went and picked up a distress signal in Trafalgar Square about some rogue Weeping Angels so I thought why not look up Sherlock Holmes when you're in the area? So that's the short story."

He beams.

"That's…" begins Mrs. Hudson. "Something."

Holmes impatiently withdraws his pipe from his dressing gown pocket and bites down on the stem to prevent himself from uttering an overly sarcastic remark to this obviously mad stranger.

"I am a busy man, in case you were not aware, Mr…?"

"The doctor. Just the doctor. Is Watson lurking about?" The peculiar grey-green eyes roam over the room.

"Unless you have a coherent narrative to present to me, I will not have my time wasted."

"Well," says the doctor. "Angels. In the Square. Transporting people back in time. Considering doctor Watson might now have slipped away into I don't know…18th century France, you might be intrigued?"

"Mrs. Hudson! Kindly show our visitor the door."

Holmes flops moodily down in his armchair. The doctor pulls a pouch from his overcoat and pops something into his mouth.

"Jelly baby?"


	8. The Doctor Meets the Detective, Part 3

"No!" says Holmes sharply. "I do not want…whatever that is."

"The doctor was right," says the doctor.

"What?"

"He said once, in one of the unpublished stories, never to bother Sherlock Holmes before noon. Otherwise you're a bit…eh, nevermind!"

"Time to go," says Mrs. Hudson softly. She takes him gently by the arm.

Holmes rises from the armchair and strides to the window, looks down on the blue police in the street.

"What did you call it?"

"Oh!" The doctor brightens up. "Well, it's called a TARDIS. That stands for…"

Holmes holds up a hand before he can get any further.

"And what are these "Angels?""

The doctor is disappointed. He thought Sherlock Holmes was brighter than this. Poor, silly fellow, restricted by his rationalizations.

"Weeping Angels. Bad bundles of time energy. Sort of like vampires, feeding off the timestream in an effort to stay alive."

Holmes chuckled, shaking his head.

"Good day, doctor. I wish you the best of luck fighting the angels."

"Want to come along?" Says the doctor.

"No."

He watches from the window as the doctor crosses the road and the TARDIS vanishes with a whirr of grinding gears. It would take the doctor five minutes to deal with the weeping angels, but he would never get over his disappointment with the detective.

 **AN:** **That was the last doctor who/Sherlock holmes chapter. Back to pure canon now. I just couldn't resist a quick crossover.**


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